The Sun Burns
by rainieblack
Summary: Pureblood culture (somewhat): Arianwyn is the beloved child of Magic, and a gift to her Chosen, Tom Marvolo Riddle. TMR/OC


Ok, so I know I have at least five more stories that need updating, but I just really couldn't resist myself. I am so, so, sorry, this plot bunny ambushed me and well, what can I say? It was aggressive and heavily armed. I don't know if it's noticeable but I'm trying out a new style of writing, so read it and tell me which you prefer and if I'm doing okay in this kind of writing. Alright! Enough with my rambling, and on with the story.

"English"

" _Emphasized words_ "

* * *

Arianwyn Eirlys Rothschilds and Tom Marvolo Riddle were _odd, freakish, abnormal_. The freaks of the Wool's Orphanage, and as unspoken as the title, the statement, the _blatant_ proclamation was, the oppressing knowledge would have crushed the will of any normal child until they were meek and obedient, but it was already an established fact that Arianwyn and Tom weren't exactly normal, and they certainly never thought to respect the conventional rules that the normal followed, that much was true. However, it was with Arianwyn's presence and vice versa that the two managed to flourish and thrive in such a depressing environment instead of simply just _growing, just surviving_. Tom, in Arianwyn's opinion, was rightfully a genius, a prodigy, in everything he did, with an eidetic memory and a special kind of charm like wine that she knew would only continue to culture with age.

Tom was like Hades personified, he was like walking into the eye of a blizzard without caution, raw, unfettered emotions and a rose protected by sharp thorns, like drops of carmine blood against snow, like sharp words and soft hands, a predator so cunning he thought to don the cloak of Man, and one so sly no one noticed when his fangs struck and claws rend. Tom loved as viciously as he hated, with all his heart, and no one stood as close to his heart as Arianwyn did. Amelda Cole, the Matron of the Wool's Orphanage, would even go as far as to say the Arianwyn held Tom Marvolo Riddle's ice cold heart in her hands, that was, if he even had one.

Arianwyn, in Tom's eyes, was the galaxy. Her hair was the color of the moon and her eyes the endless sky ahead, she shone brighter than the stars, and she was _Tom's_ sun. His to treasure, his to protect and his to covet. He revolved around her, just as those in the orphanage did, for Arianwyn brought laughter and joy wherever she went. However, when Tom heard Mrs Cole call Arianwyn an angel, he laughed himself hoarse. Because for all that Arianwyn was laughter and kindness, she was also the sun. The sun nurtured, brought about life, but the sun would also burn, burn so brightly it blinded, and behind her generosity and laughter and beauty, Arianwyn was just as vicious and mean as Tom was.

Arianwyn was like Persephone personified, sweet smiles and chiming laughter, her brightness shone onto him as well, made him tamer, _lighter_ , and sometimes, it seemed as though flowers bloomed at her feet when she walked. Arianwyn was softness, warmth and comforting touches that drew him in like she did to everyone else. She was like exhilarated laughs floating in the warm summer air and like the air he _needed_ to breathe, but she was also toxic lips, beguiling eyes and a sharp mind, the world's most beautiful poison.

And like the gods they personified, Arianwyn and Tom would change the world as it was, shake it up and leave chaos in their wake.

They were eleven, and alone and afraid, with only each other at their backs when introduced to a startling new world, and it was then that they made a pact. ' _together forever'_ , she whispered to him, lying on his bed in their shared room. ' _forever and ever'_ , he whispered back, hand finding hers just as easily in the dark of the night as it did when they met the Deputy Headmaster Dumbledore of Hogwarts. And thus so, the future was remade, just as their magic was. His latched and curled around hers, just as hers did to his, until they were pressed together so tightly they were almost one.

* * *

They rode on boats that were ferried by magic, Arianwyn accepted, had their minds invaded by the hat, she accepted, met ghosts, she accepted, had food pop into existence before their eyes, she accepted as well, but _this_? This was the last straw. Arianwyn shook her head apologetically, even as Tom struggled to contain his apoplectic rage, his hand closing gently around hers, cradling her fingers delicately like she was spun from glass, even though she knew he was so furious, he was shaking. "We can't be separated, Professor Slughorn," Arianwyn murmured, ducking her head and doing her best to give the illusion that she was small, weak, and helpless, knowing that people in general would be more acquiescent to give her what she wanted if she appeared fragile and innocent.

And as Horace Slughorn chuckled and waved his hand, ' _don't exaggerate, my girl, how silly you are, of course you can be separated, now off you go_ ', and after dismissing her plea entirely, Arianwyn gave a few sniffles, agreeing reluctantly and brought her arms around Tom, whose magic was reigned in so tight against himself Arianwyn could only wonder at how much it was taking him to not lash out and destroy everything he came in contact with, even as she plotted Horace Slughorn's death and screamed her curses in her head.

And as she was sent back to her room, where her second-handed trunk filled with books, worn uniforms, and everything that _meant_ to her lay, Arianwyn knew, she _knew_ , just like how she knew when to smile a sweet, soft smile at Deputy Headmaster Dumbledore when his face started to crease like he was about to condemn them _,_ even without words filling the air, that they were to get started on learning spells to help them sneak around, _immediately_.

They were eleven, and they were separated, and with Arianwyn away from him, without her magic to shield his, the influx from the castle, the _goddamn_ castle, was almost too much to bear. Tom felt raw, exposed, _vulnerable_. Like his bones were melting out of his body, like his skin was too _tight, tight, tight_ for his magic, like it was trying to surge back to where it rightfully belonged, curled up tight with one that was so familiar, he knew as intimately as himself, needing it like he need air. Tom Marvolo Riddle sat up in the too soft, too lush, too _everything_ , bed, yew pressing, thrumming, _humming_ against his hip before the door even opened because he _knew_ , he _knew_ , just as well as he knew Arianwyn, what her magic tasted like, what _theirs_ tasted like when they were curled up together, heads bowed, knees touching and fingers interlocked with a sort of desperate kind of thankful _need_ that managed to eclipse everything he thought he'd ever wanted, and he wanted some things _badly_.

' _Tom'_ , she whispers when she moves for him, her lips shaping his name just as delicately as how she held his magic in her hands three days ago, shaded under the canopy of the fir tree they claimed, and in the autumn air, with the chilly breeze nipping at them _just_ so, Tom had felt complete, like how it had meant to be to begin with. She looks calm and serene, but she says his name like she wants to keep it to herself, and her eyes shine a beautiful, _beautiful_ blue in the steady glow of the torchlights that he has yet to extinguish, pale hair gathered in a complicated braid that hung down her back. ' _Ariyan'_ he says in reply, his voice confident and steady, but somehow managing to sound reverent and awed, caressing the sound of her name like he's breathing out a prayer, waiting impatiently, _so_ , _so_ impatient, _aching_ with the need to reach out and _touch_ her, feel her fingers curl around his, as she hikes up the worn chiffon of her nightgown which trails slightly on the warm wood flooring of his room. He shifts against the clean linen of the bed when she falls against him in a cloud of sunshine and roses, arms tangling around his neck and the ends of her long hair brushing teasingly against his neck when she lays her head on his shoulder, legs folded beneath her neatly.

His arms encircle around her waist, and he holds her there for what seems like forever, his _everything_ crumpling when her magic reaches out, tangles together with his, blanketing his skin until the chill he didn't know was pervading his skin faded away. He is warm again.

Tom Marvolo Riddle is eleven, and he is complete.


End file.
